


Stained City

by Mercury17



Series: Left Overs [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury17/pseuds/Mercury17
Summary: Peter is on a policing course in Berlin when he runs across a part of Nightingale's past that hasn't quite gone away yet.Doesn't matter if you've read part 1.





	Stained City

**Author's Note:**

> I've linked this work to Left Overs because they're about the same event. They're different styles though, and they're each meant to be stand alone in their own right which is why I haven't made them chapters. I hope they work both separately and together. Thank you!:)

Berlin wasn't London but I'd made my peace with it. It still had that capital city buzz I required, and the whilst I missed the bright colours of the tube map I finally had the U-Bahn down. I had been disappointed in the pretzels - and maybe it was time to admit, that if I didn't like German pretzels maybe I just wasn't a pretzel kinda guy - but the beer had been everything I'd promised, and the croissants an unexpected surprise (just covering the important points you understand). The weather had felt unnaturally sunny compared to London, but remained cold enough to be Autumnal. 

I'd been here over a week now, part of trip to consolidate international supernatural policing cooperation. I'd attended several training sessions, even led a few myself. I was quite proud of my 'Managing the pursuit of Falcon subjects in an urban environment' presentation despite Nightingale's choice suggestions for additional slides. The ten days of training were now complete but I'd managed to wrangle it so I had the whole fortnight off, giving myself some valuable sightseeing time. Nightingale had turned down my offer of a personal tour of the architecture (his loss of course) and had remained in the hotel room in what I found to be an unusually mopey mood for him.

It was around 11am and I was very happy with how my morning was progressing. I'd set aside the next day to do my more sombre history, and was simply getting a good touristy overview for now. Berlin is a city that's still rebuilding. There are parts of London that are still being reconstructed after the war, but they're mostly away from the tourist centres. Berlin had seen street to street fighting, had been divided, walled off, occupied, remade by factions, and it's scars are in many ways still raw. The streets rang with the sound of power tools and building work; it made the whole place feel shifting and changeable.

Like any self respecting Londoner I don't pull maps out in the middle of the street, but I was subtly checking my phone for directions to Museum Island for some pre-lunch culture. It meant however, that I wasn't paying full attention to my surroundings and stumbled into the midst of vestiga before I'd even noticed it was there. 

It was like finding the paving stone had been replaced by a swamp. I seemed to sink into muddy stinking bog water, my fingers itched, the sun was too bright, someone was chasing me, no wait, I was chasing them and... I was through. 

Berlin cemented itself more firmly in my little Londoner's heart when despite what must have been some strange facial expressions and gasping that I'd just exhibited in public, I received no more than two odd looks at my behaviour. It meant that I felt no compunction about the strange behaviour I was going to continue exhibiting. I stalked around the vestiga and found it formed the shape of a long narrow streak. Like a trail.

I was experienced enough to investigate this by myself. I mean really this would have been an excellent outdoor workshop with my burgeoning European colleagues, but magic has no sense of timing. Germany itself had barely any magical infrastructure to call upon. And I had four days off, and Museum Island would wait.

It worried me how clear the trail was. This was clearly either a very strong magical event, or a new form of magical practitioner wending it's way through the city. The initial streak of vestiga was stronger in one direction so I headed off that way. I soon found that these streaks of vestiga repeated at random intervals, in a trail that was becoming more distinct, like something with a sputtering magical exhaust pipe had driven through the city. Following the trail wasn't exactly pleasant, I had to keep plunging into the vestiga and it was gradually making me nauseous and jumpy. Luckily the trail seemed to be leading me into quieter areas of the city.

It wasn't long before the trail led me to a lair. Because of course it did, because that was just what my life needed: more lairs. This was really more a burrow dug into the bank of the Spree. The entrance was concealed, nevertheless I wasn't sure how it had managed to be hidden in such a central location, but then I'd experienced plenty of hidden in plain site magic in London, and Berlin had enough random artefacts that this didn't seem too incongruous. Plus, I considered ruefully, most people wouldn't have followed the actively scary vestiga here, no _most_ people would have been put off. 

Whatever this creature was, it wasn't something I thought I'd come across before. I'd normally call Nightingale in for this, but I am trying to be more self sufficient. There was no sign that this was anything particularly dangerous, this wasn't a vampire, it wasn't any of the urban predators I'd learnt to recognise in London. But... the sheer unpleasantness of the vestiga was coming from this place in billowing waves, like the greasy smoke of a tire fire. This wasn't a thing I could in good conciseness leave un-investigated. I wrenched the overgrown weeds to one side and stuck my head in. 

-

 

The positive outcome of that action was I was able to identify the creature as a revenant: technically something that had returned from the dead but in practice a ghost with a bit more punch than a normal ghost. One which can still effect the physical world in a variety of ways, sometimes conjuring up a physical body and they tend to have serious unfinished business to the point they often don't realise they are dead. Based on the state of it's lair, this particular revenant was causing quite a bit of harm to the living and needed dealing with, but I had a relatively easy fix for it I would just need a bit of help from Nighingale. Bad news: I wasn't sure that help would be forthcoming.

Somehow, _somehow_ Nightingale had been in there. When I stuck my head in it's lair I'd been hit by some pretty powerful vestiga, the air became so stale I'd gagged, and I'd summoned a werelight on instinct and then... Nightingale was suddenly staring me down. He was wreathed in smoke, and there was deep smouldering fire behind him. This was not the Nighingale as I had ever imagined him or seen him. No, this was him broken and twisted. Badly put together and leaking. Still strong enough to be terrifying. I had remained aware this was illusion. The horrors in his lair hardly inspired sympathy, but I felt the fear of the creature. I pulled my head out and had to gasp for fresh air.

I rather sensibly decided sight-seeing would have to be rescheduled and legged it back to the hotel. 

__

__

_-_

Nighingale seemed fairly engrossed in channel surfing when I got back, and whilst I wanted nothing more than to ask his opinion on German daytime TV, he knew something was up from my face. 

I hurridly explained my activities that morning. On revealing it was a revenant, he urgently checked to make sure I was OK but, beyond that moment, his face remained impassive, including during the part with him in it. That was slightly unnerving to me. "I think sir," I said, "I think... did you kill it? Whatever it was the first time?" 

He made a slight movement that was actually a nod. He pursed his lips, "Yes I believe so," he said. 

"You... when was this? What was it?" 

I endured a few heart-stopping moments where I thought he wasn't going to answer. 

"It was after the war," he said tonelessly, "The end of 1946," 

_-_

"You have to understand Peter, that whilst I was there for 6 months, days and nights and Summer through to Winter, in my head Berlin's sky is always orange. There's too much dust in the air and it casts the sunlight orange, a perpetual murky twilight, though whether dawn or dusk I'm not sure. The sky is orange, and the streets are grey, dusty and frosted. It doesn't matter the memory, that's how Berlin exists for me. 

"It was towards the end of 1946 - Berlin was being divided up, and it was rapidly becoming clear who the real powers were. Nevertheless the Folly back in London was in denial. They had me left, the last vestige of British wizarding power. And Peter, I was broken. I don't think I realised it at the time, but then I don't think the Folly realised how broken they were. Everyone was in denial. I had done my stint in hospital, I'd recuperated at the Folly. I fooled myself into thinking I was cured," he swallowed thickly, "that I could be cured. 

"I was to scout out in this shifting mix of nations laying their claim on Berlin who still had magic, and what their designs with it were. I had some informants. I'd gathered a lot of building plans and letters. None were relevant, because of course they weren't. There was nothing of relevance for me there." 

Something in his face let me know that I couldn't get excited about this type of spying. No invisible car jokes for me. 

"Towards the end of my stay there... well I was calling it to an end anyway... I got a tip off from an informant that there were... werewolves in Berlin." 

"Werewolves?" I said sharply, "Vavara mentioned those, said they didn't know exactly what they were but they were terrifying. Did you find out? Are they actual werewolves? Are they-" I cleared my throat. Nighingale's expression was pained. 

"I'm not sure. I'm not sure what Vavara Sidrovna was referring to, whether it was the same thing, whether it was what I'd faced before. What I faced here was a shadow of the supernatural terrors I'd faced before but that did not mean it was not considerable. And in the state I was in..." 

"You faced it?" 

He gave a quiet humourless laugh, "Yes. Faced it. My informant tipped me off. I said that. But I think his warning doomed me. I panicked, I made myself obvious. And it was desperate, starving. It took me, 

"I tried to run you see, I didn't want to fight it. I'd seen far too much violence and if it was anything like the creatures of my past I would have no choice but to fight it. I couldn't inflict anymore violence on the world. Vain hope." 

He seemed small, hunched in that cheap hotel room chair, staring at his clasped hands, "Creatures like that... You run, they chase." 

He looked up at me and his gaze was uncomfortably direct, "I'm so sorry Peter," he said, "I didn't mean to kill it. It was a different time anyway I was..." 

I realised that he was trying to _apologise_ to me... 

"It's alright sir, just talk me through what happened," I said. 

He took a shaky breath, "It chased me. There were a lot of alleys back then. I remember half the city being ruined alleys. Places which were narrow and had no one watching. It caught up to me, I didn't want to fight. I was so tired. I've never been that tired. It... It didn't want to kill me. It was a little while before I realised it wasn't going to kill me. There must have been some plan, it must have been trying to look for something, but whoever had been giving its orders was gone. 

"It grabbed me and tried to drag me into one of the abandoned houses next to us. Once I realised he wasn't going for the kill I tried to fight, but the magic wouldn't come. I had 30 years of practice and a war behind me by that point, fighting should have come easy but I just couldn't focus. There is no excuse for that really, I just couldn't get the formae to line up. I tried to fight back, physically I mean, I'm not inexperienced but I..." 

He clasped his hands tightly and leaned over them. He cleared his throat. 

"Well," he said, "he got me into the house, I was bleeding badly by this point and looking back I know I was dazed. Maybe you'd call it shock. We ended up in the basement, I remember I made one final effort but the magic still wouldn't come and it was so much stronger than me. I was face down in a tunnel, I think an underground overflow or similar, I was even more injured, he got my arms behind me and started dragging me further down the tunnel.

"I had begun to think properly again, evaluate my situation, I realised I needed to regroup. It went against all natural instinct to let an enemy take me further into his territory but I needed the time. It's amazing what you can block out when you need to focus. We got to his burrow - you've seen it as it now. At the time it was rancid, I remember how uneven the floor was with the scattered detritus, the smell of it - well, it was a smell I was far too used to. Nevertheless the oppressive decay of the place was enough to make my focus waver. I had had some vain hope of counter-intelligence: turn the tables on it, raid the enemy hideout, return in triumph. The rot and carelessness made me realise it was working without instruction or order. Cast adrift like me, working from habit." 

He was silent for long enough for me to want to interject, "You can't think you were alike sir," I said, slightly incredulous. 

His mouth moved in what would have been a smile had he not looked so utterly miserable, "Don't worry Peter, there were too many dead in that hole for me to feel any sympathy for it at the time. That was probably my mistake: I got angry. For the first time in a long time. I attacked him. I could use magic, but the formae didn't line up exactly as they needed to. They slipped out of control. I killed him. I burnt the place out and I killed him. It was a bad end. I stood in there for a long time afterwards. 

"I got back to where I was staying eventually. I realised I was finished here, packed up, and extracted myself back to London. The Folly weren't happy, but up until then I'd done good work. Apparently the last bit of intelligence I'd brought them proved my point that we had no place there. And the collapse of the Folly picked up speed after that. It wasn't long before it was just me and Molly left," He smiled genuinely then, if quietly, "It's funny, when I got back I was still injured and I was rather ill with infection and Molly was the only one who seemed to care about that. She seemed worried rather than snatching the envelope out of my hand and demanding to know why I was back. 

"Anyway, there you are. That's how it died and how I left Berlin. But clearly I didn't do my job here, it's still causing pain. It had a pathetic, pitiful end and it was a messy, pathetic end to my service here." 

His voice had cracked by the word 'service'. He didn't look up. 

"Is that," I said, "erm is that the first time you've told that story sir?" 

Nightingale nodded. I wondered just how many stories there were he hadn't told yet, curled up poisoned and festering within him. I couldn't absolve him of what he'd done, clearly this was about more than one botched fight with a werewolf, this was too big for me encompass. I stood up and stretched. The day was heading dangerously close to evening but I didn't want one more night to pass with Nightingale like this. I would offer him what I could: my understanding, and an end to this sad small part of history. 

_-_

Luckily, for all that revenant's can be terrifying and, in this case, rather disgusting, they're generally no harder to banish than a normal ghost. It wasn't hard for us to find it's bones, it's lair having been undisturbed except by the revenant itself since 1946. With Nightingale lending me a hand we had it dispatched before dawn. We stood on the bank of the Spree looking at the pathetic remains of the form it had gathered. It seemed to have mainly constructed it's revenant form out of bits of stray dog. I conjured the formae to set it on fire and we watched the remains burn to ash. I knew I was going to have to give up some of my carefully hoarded days off to help the German version of me get the correct people in to sweep out the lair and see if it could be connected to any missing persons case or other damage over the last seventy years. Nightinglae had insisted on having a look though, and we could find no human remains in the lair (the fire he'd started those decades ago having been fairly destructive) so I had hope there wouldn't be too much more misery attached to this. 

The river was turning from grey to silver as the sky lightened. Nightingale was staring at it glumly but I could feel he was building up to say something. He wouldn't have laid his soul that bare without wanting to close it up again. 

"You know," he said finally, "That wasn't as painful as I expected. I thought I'd be right back there, as I was in 1946. Sometimes more water goes under the bridge than you realise." 

I nodded in what I thought to be a sage manner, "That's good though?" I said, "Eventually, it won't hurt at all." 

"I'm so used to hanging on to that though," he said, "It would feel disrespectful to forget." 

"You won't ever forget sir," I said, "You'd just... it will stop damaging you," 

He sighed and didn't answer, but he briefly rested his hand on my shoulder. It felt like part comfort and part thank you. I wondered what it would feel like to realise I was loosing my grip on something I'd held tight to for seventy years. Still, he seemed to stand a little lighter. 

I was beginning to feel stiff with cold, and in need of the wonders of continental coffee. 

"Come on sir," I said brightly, starting off towards the city centre, "We need to find a bakery. The croissants are amazing, trust me. Actually, no, I'm going to buy you something weird and sugary after last night. Something no one could actually call breakfast," 

He kept pace with me and actually laughed gently at that. "Oh Peter, you think you can shock me. I can tell you the stories of the breakfasts I ate in my youth," 

And he did. They were good stories, happy stories The city woke up around us, one piece of darkness lighter. Berlin started about its day and I led us towards coffee. 


End file.
